Slave (The Calling of Manumit)

One lung full while the other

constricts,                      

shrivels,

crushed beneath this weight

I can’t think, can’t  resist,

weakened

by the purchase of screws

I held myself down for

and bled my tears

listening to the

sweet sound

of mourning doves.

I have forgotten You

and I confess

sometimes I think You are gone,

abandoned me

for greener fields

of those more faithful.

But You say I am Your temple—

chained as I am to memory,

so please keep holding out keys

to this puzzle of wings

I am putting together

to fly away from ghostly apparitions

that visit me in my dreams.

They kiss me on the forehead

and keep me from the tiny living temples

that matter at all to me.

Serpent of haunting,

you’ve bitten, but you are crushed,

and I, while breathing in a whisper from the moon

through windows

streaming enlightened threads

in reflection of daylight,

in the back of my mind

I hear it

in each pump of blood

from my heart

I know

I know

I was meant to be free.

 

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

I'll be linking this to Poets United Poetry Pantry

Forest

chestnut-backed chickadee

on the hemlock branch

chatters my arrival

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

for haiku my heart friday at recuerda mi corazon

Hollow

deep in the wintergreens

of twilight

it grows

 where birds of song

vacate homes in season’s passing,

gathering shadows of keeping;

 and berries, frozen—

are bejeweling 

the trampled floor

of the forest wide and deep

 of her glacial heart

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Poets United: The Poetry Pantry

Frost

a dusting of diamonds

sparkling on evergreens

winter’s oracle

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

haiku my heart

In Winter's Sights

she placed snowshoes on the mountain,

a shine to the lips of heaven

in a musical crunching of white

with peek-a-boo pine cones and twigs

it was in moments like this she felt it,

breathed it

when douglas firs and lodgepole pines

held a shimmering of frost

and a barn owl’s low hoot

gave her a sense of mulled cider

when the fire is just right

and so is the world

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Offerings:  The Poetry Pantry and dVerse

Interview at Poets United

I've had the honor of being interviewed by the talented Sherry of Poets United for the Life of a Poet Series.  If you would like to read it, go here:  Life of a Poet - Jennifer Wagner.  Thanks Sherry, I was truly surprised and honored to be featured!

Firegold

dusk

is a notion

of half-closed lids

in yellow flicks

of candlelight

against your bluegreen eyes

where

despite or because of

that lonely space between us

you pull me into

it

reaching for that tender

part you save for me

until i believe

i am the jewel

upon your hand

you always say i am

and melt like gold

in your palms

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

The Poetry Pantry

Not a Circus Fan

Circus me a frown

clown in neon blue

with stripes

I see in my sleep

Oscillating, like a cyclone

like that time

after too many mango margaritas

in Cabo

Heave-ho

pirate clown

black and white

and stubbly beard

I hope he won’t hug me

scratches, Patches

and his scent

like bourbon on Santa’s breath

Now there’s a clown

asking if “mommy” would like to sit

on his lap too

Watery eyes, seen too many

bottoms

of glasses

And cigar smoke

fingering the suit

I make for

the other end of the sleigh

feeling a bit like sequins and legs

and hope for more

of stale popcorn

and less of

the inexplicable circus peanut

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

For Poetry Jam: Under the Big Top 

Storytellers, Poets, Dreamers

shining, twinkling—

winking morse code

in the cold clear of night

                

peering toward hills

graced by tempered moon

and gathering breaths like visions

in baskets of words

illuminated,

holding gold, like dust—fragments

in upheld palms

releasing them to jump gracefully

spin, twirl like fireflies

climbing in the tenebrosity

and falling like stars 

on shoulders

whispering to hungry ears

a glittering of seasons

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OpenLinkNight

The Truce

sitting in the dust

accusers round her, thick—

with pride and spittle

dribbling their bearded chins

fingers pointing, fists shaking, rocks in hand—

the ground trembling with cries for justice

‘such women’ they yell, violent distaste rolling

off their tongues

one by one, they felt the mirrored shame in His words

until only one accuser remained

as she waited for the airless moment to pass

and a stone to pierce her

the two of them breathed slowly together, seconds ticking, until

she put it down, rose up, and began to pardon herself

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

*His words

For dVerse, Armistice/Truce/Making Peace with Poetics

Settling Upon November

The artistry of SueAnn.  Used with permission.

Damp yellow leaves

and a hanging gray

settled upon November

with sharp scents of burning wood

and smoke encircling chimneys.

Head down, she trudged ‘home’

rain splattering her jacket

and hiding bright tears.

November, the month

she knew more than leaves

were dying.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics: Through the Artist's Lens 

Night Witches (Nachthexen)

They flew in the cold,

in the pitch-blackness of an evil sky,

riddled with bullets.

No radios.

No parachutes.

2 bombs.

Engines cut

on the Polikarpov U-2,

to creep

up on sleeping monsters,

to visit their dreams

with light,

and bring the Reich and Reign

closer to hell.

Started them up

in mission, resolute,

crawling out on the wings,

on a limb,

for the rest of us.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

 

Did you know women flew airplanes in combat in WWII?  I didn’t until I visited the Flying Heritage Museum recently.  The 588^th Night Bomber Regiment was made entirely of women who flew the PO-2.  They would sneak up on the enemy by cutting their engines, drop bombs, and then restart their engines to get away; even crawling out on the wings, mid-flight when necessary, to get the props going.  And then go and do it all over again throughout the freezing night.  Truly heroic.  The Nazis began to refer to them as Night Witches because of the terror this tactic inflicted.  Seemed like the right time of year to write about them.

The photos:  (top) a few of these amazing aviators.   And (right) the PO-2, the tail number honors the 23 who earned "Hero of the Soviet Union" citations. And (left) the lettering on the fuselage translates into "Revenge for Dusya," a tribute to the first Night Witch to be killed in combat.  30 of them were lost in all.  If you click any of the links here I recommend the "Revenge for Dusya"...really some fascinating reading from the book A Dance with Death.

Linking up to OpenLinkNight at dVerse, an amazing site for poetry.

Gloom

cobwebs thick upon your hands

dirt underneath your nails

embedded deep

buried

            alive

you feel the crust

of tears and dirt

stuck to your lashes

            your nostrils

choking

you make shallow breaths

repeat your name

you are

not                   dead                 yet

remind yourself

to come back

to the living

keep scratching and clawing

out

of

the

dark

someone will need

your survival story one day

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

For Ella's prompt at Poets United: Web 

Wild Peaches and the River

 She tucked me into bed,

wrapped me in

an age-worn quilt

and I slept like the baby I nearly was.

When I woke,

I pulled the quilt around me

and tiptoed across the old wood floors

covered with braided rugs.

Rubbing sleep from my eyes,

I entered the kitchen

and watched her sitting at the farm table,

with a cup of steaming coffee, slicing a wild peach.

Her hands were still strong then;

and even now I never see a peach,

smell one, taste one,

without thinking of her.

She laughed, her mellow way, eyes crinkling,

when I said how much I liked the sweetness

but not the fuzzy skin which poked

like a prickly moustache against my mouth.

Overheard her saying, later

that she ‘got tickled’

when I’d said the pigs rooting in the pen

looked like they had ribbons in their tails.

When I’d trailed her

to the rabbit cages

and saw a mama rabbit

eat her own baby

she didn’t shield me

from the horror of it,

but let me ask the hard questions

and answered them, best she knew.

‘Fascinating’ is what I’d called it,

when asked about it back home.

And she was, too,

though I never said it.

Except at the cemetery overlooking the river

when I wished her back

to see me enjoy the sweetness in my life,

to bring lightness when it poked;

and because the questions

have only gotten harder.

But mostly, to hear her ‘tickled’ laughter

one more time.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

For Grandma.  Rest in peace, we so often rested in yours.

Submissions:  dVerse OpenLinkNight and Theme Thursday, Cemeteries

Puddle

raindrops

puddle bouncing

i want to play too

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

recuerda mi corazon 

Troll Bridge

facing the winter

of a hearse driven life

you soldier on

with skeletons in the closet

clacking along

the last frost covered leaf

curled and brown, laced with silver,

blows away in the wind

the wind,

there to bite you

sting you,

 remind you

of regrets and demons without, within—cackling

in the still-deadness

where your still-living questions

ask if you have left

them behind

they pick lustily

at your flesh, with tempting,

at your mind, with amoebic doubts—

troll-like, in a present-day quagmire

on one side of the bridge; whereupon crossing

you hear a voice

which says to Call This

The Bridge Where You Rename Yourself

                                                    And Forgiven, And Worth

                       Overcomer                                                                        Being

Names like                                                                                                                  Loved

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Inspiration: Isaiah 62, Revelation 2, and a dream that woke me up

For the prompt at Poetry Jam and for  Poets United Poetry Pantry

*Note: this piece doesn't read right on most hand-held devices.  For accuracy read on a larger screen.

Baiting Hooks with Luke

At 9 years old

it’s funny how

half the bait slips off the hook

before it hits the water.

Plop.

A lonely barely-bit of bait,

not worth a triploid trout’s time, really—

makes it

into Rufus Woods Reservoir.

He shrugs, though, good enough—

just to get it out there,

sits down on the dusty rock

and waits

for a pulse on the line.

He owns this moment

as I watch him

smile a bit,

flick his foot in the water,

and gaze at the opposing hills;

while I wonder

what he’s thinking.

No more than half a minute goes by, and

tug—tug—tug.

‘Got one’ he says, not surprised, at all—

and begins reeling;

the rest of us look at each other,

shake our heads,

and laugh a bit in disbelief.

Something about

the faith of a child

to know you don’t have to

be perfect,

sometimes fish

are just hungry.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

to be linking up with the amazing poets at dVerse Poets Pub this week

Inconsequentially Rotating the Ball

yoga, green tea, SUV

pop culture, church, reality TV

and don’t forget trips to Ha-wa-ii

raining down words

while sitting fat

like Jabba the Hutt

on a throne

of carc-ass-es

children of the same god

Mother Teresa should send us all to our rooms

to think about it

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

i like some of the things i’ve listed here, so this is not meant to offend anyone if they like any of them too…it’s just thoughts about what’s important on this big ball we live on and what we do, and don’t do, on it…

Poetry Jam 

Never Lose the Ability to Get Lost

blonde and brown

heads bobbling

with energy

they, like arrows,

pierce the earth

with exuberance

never losing

their silly, boyish grins

as i watch them

jumping, bouncing

wrestling each other

on the trampoline

where they forget

brotherly offenses

i hope they never lose this

ability to get lost

in the moment

with laughter

and forgiveness

like dollops of rain

drenching the

thirsty onlookers

and me the memory of it

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

my boys and how they work things out, my favorite people to watch…meant to link up to Brian Miller’s people watching poetics prompt, 6 Billion Others at dVerse, but got busy and was too late…so I’ll be linking it to openlinknight

Falling - A Set of Haiku

old country road

blanket of pine needles

your cheeks ruddy

-------------------

my cold hand

in yours

warm

-------------------

smoke rising

flames bursting

scent of leaves

-------------------

sweeping over

shades of dusk

black crow moon

-------------------

cattle lowing

a song

for autumn

-------------------

cider

cinnamon swizzle stick

hints on my lips

-------------------

crème brûlée,

and the salt in your kiss

delicious

-------------------

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

recuerda mi corazon and Poetry Pantry

Newly Fallen White

Her skirt of scarlet pulled

from the ankle;

as she hastened her steps

breath rose in forms of smoky blue.

Stopping cold on broken twigs

frozen in fairy tale,

she peered upward. Snow fell

with no cloud in the sky.

How soon lovers forsake the

faithful whispers of moonlight;

cooing birds shutter, flutter

and blur the lines with tears.

She’d only wanted one to love her,

but tragic oaths of mutilated promise                 

breed an anemic beast hungry for

a burning, scorching bite.

The milky air

washed invisible the copse of antiquity

while her lips turned aubergine

against the newly fallen white of frosty vows.

She squeezed the fruit and

licked the juice of indiscretion

with no pleasure.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OpenLinkNight Opening 12pm Pacific Time

9:11 am

Shift ends at 8am

and I look over at the clock

It’s odd to me he often arrives

at 9:11, post commute

I try not to think about

that nightmare

I had struggled to get

out of my mouth

Shaking and choking

as I tried to tell him about it;

The one where I am at his funeral

with our sons beside me

I just enjoy the moment

of being a firefighter’s wife

Enjoy his smile and laugh

full, when he bursts in the door

Sounding like the Ghost of Christmas Present

rich and deep, full of all things good

Today is the day I think about those photographs

with the towers in calamity

The firefighters rushing to, and in

while others are running away, and out

The looks on their faces

telling bravery is not without fear

It is committing to give

in spite of it

Not withdrawing

courage to save someone else’s spouse,

Someone else’s children

while praying someone will remember theirs

And I do

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner 

Posted to dVerse Poets

Russet and Gold

russet dreams

in flax and gold

spun through my fingers

crisp and cool

and bright

the mornings of disappearing mist

crunch of apples

sliced and sprinkled

cinnamon and sugar

little fingers

licked clean

i kiss their cowlicked heads

 

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Autumn Series Haiku 

haiku my heart and dVerse Poetics Autumn

Purple Shoelaces

She is

hiding behind black everything—

hair protruding from a black hoodie,

covering all but one eye.

Headphones are pumping sounds

into the darkly shrouded form;

I see the wires that must lead to an iPod

—hidden somewhere.

Staring down, so as not to

greet the oft-dismissing world, she walks

with slow purpose, counting the steps,

within the walls

where she keeps her fear of rejection.

She looks at me, despite herself,

as if she doesn’t want to be seen, but does—

and she can’t hide it

soon enough

that she is happy

to be noticed.

Hers eyes are pools of wounded gray,

deep, and soulful.

And I keep looking—eyes tell stories,

and dreams,

and everyone should have one.

Then I spot them—her black Converse shoes

have purple shoelaces,

and this bespeaks

the truth.

She doesn’t want to be disregarded.

Hiding

is just waiting

until it’s safe

to be seen.

I smile, at them, at her;

and she grins, lifts her chin,

and walks on.

While it occurs to me

we’re all

wearing purple shoelaces.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OpenLinkNight. Some of the best poets on the web.